


Tape - Part I

by AngeRabbit



Series: Tape [1]
Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M, PWP, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:24:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeRabbit/pseuds/AngeRabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted on LJ on 04/01/2008.</p>
<p><b>Disclaimer:</b> LOM is owned by BBC and Kudos, thus I am pwned by them both.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Tape - Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ on 04/01/2008.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** LOM is owned by BBC and Kudos, thus I am pwned by them both.

Sam was dreaming. Even though in deep sleep, his brain was still awake enough to tell him this much. Its reasoning came from the appearance of a rather large shire horse wearing a pink tutu, which walked across the background of his dream. Did nothing else; walked in, across, and out of the other side of his visual imagining.

Once the horse had left, his brain returned to the dream. Gene Hunt seemed to be the main feature, for some _unfathomable_ reason. Gene turned towards Dream Sam and opened his mouth, ready to impart some pearl of wisdom. As his lips moved, the only sound Sam could hear was a rustling, scuffling noise, followed by a muffled thump – loud enough to rouse him from his slumber.

Rubbing his eyes, he squinted in protest against the sunlight of Saturday morning. Stumbling out of bed, he was heading for the bathroom when something underneath the front door caught his eye. Crouching down as he looked, he realised there was a small brown envelope halfway under the door. Trying to pull it towards him, he realised the thump he heard must have been the frustration of whoever had tried to shuffle the envelope through. It was wedged firmly, the contents being too thick to fit. Opening the rickety door, he picked up the brown packet, glancing around to see if anyone or anything unusual was loitering. Satisfied there was nothing out of the ordinary, he turned as he straightened up, kicking the door closed with his foot, concentrating on the envelope.

There was nothing written on the outside; he squeezed the packet – whatever was in there felt plastic. Holding it to his ear, there was only silence, so he gently shook it. A familiar rattle greeted him. He knew what the sound was, but couldn't quite place it. Tearing open the envelope, he slid the contents out onto his kitchen table.

On the table was an audio cassette tape, around which was wrapped a small slip of paper. Unfolding the slip, he read: 

'Information to your advantage'.

The message was typed, and no watermarks on the paper. There was nothing written on the outer casing of the tape, just blank plastic looking back at him. Maybe it was info on the Banks murder. They'd already tried all their usual informants with no luck; every one of them seemed too scared to talk. Maybe someone had done this anonymously to try and help with the case. Sam snorted to himself as the thought went through his mind. It wasn't like the criminal contingency of Manchester was usually falling over themselves to help – not willingly. And the falling over was normally what happened if they refused to co-operate; with the encouragement of Carling's fists, as a rule.

Sam knew he would have to go to the station to listen to the tape. All the cars still had eight-track systems, and he certainly didn't have a cassette player at home. The way the team had looked on in wonder when he instigated the use of the cassette recorder in interviews was proof positive that cassettes were not yet regarded as everyday items. A small alarm bell rang in his head as he mused, but he chose to ignore it, opting instead for a shower to clear his head before he made his way to the office.

*****§§§§§*****§§§§§*****

Pushing open the door to Lost and Found, Sam saw the cassette recorder sitting on the table towards the back of the room. Musty and close as ever, the atmosphere in the room encouraged him to remove his leather jacket. Placing it carefully over the back of one of the chairs at the table, he pushed “eject” on the cassette recorder. As the lid on the recorder popped open, he slid in the tape and pressed the “play” button.

The rather hoarse and exceedingly slurred voice of DCI Gene Hunt issued forth as the tape wound on. All of a sudden the room seemed to shrink as his drunken tones filled any and every available space. Sam leant on the back of a chair, looking at the floor as he took in the words. He should have known it would be some kind of half-cut attempt at a wind-up.

“Is this thing on? Bloody 'ell!”

A loud scrabbling noise made Sam visibly wince and adjust the volume a little lower. 

“Record. Red button. Pressed down. Must be workin' then. Anyway. I 'ave – I 'ave been partakin' of Nelson's finest ales this evening, my little Deputy Dawg. I _know_ , I am always able to conceal the fact that I 'ave partuck – no, par, par...that I 'ave been drinkin'. Consumed – no, _consummated_ professional, Sammy, that's me. You could learn a thing or two from the Gene - Gene Genie, you mincin' lightweight. You'll be 'earing this the day after though, so try and keep up, Gladys.”

Sam shook his head as he stared at the floor, wondering why he was wasting his time listening to the ramblings of some inebriated neanderthal. Reaching out to stop the tape, he paused as the monologue continued.

“...and I said if he took 'er 'ome, she'd let 'im give 'er one. But I am digressing – I think, if that's right? - well, the point of this, Sammy, the _point_ – the point is, there's things I 'ave to tell yer that I can't do when I've not been on the lash. So now seems the right time.”

Sam clutched the back of the chair just a little bit tighter. Considering what his DCI felt able to say to him when he was sober, he wasn't quite sure what level of abuse was coming his way next. After being called every known euphemism for gay that must have existed in the 1970s, what the hell was left?!

“You – you, DI Tyler, Sam, Sammy-boy...you, you - _offensive shirt-wearer_...”

He rolled his eyes. Here it came.

“...you 'ave _no idea_ 'ow much I want to put my tongue down the back of yer throat and – and tie your tonsils in knots.”

Sam's head whipped up so fast his eyeballs nearly spun round in their sockets. What? He rewound the tape a little, unable to believe what he had just heard.

“...down the back of yer throat and – and tie your tonsils in knots. I want to pull back yer pointy 'ead and suck on yer throat until it bruises. You and yer offensive open-necked shirts. Bloody poncey stripy things. It's like lookin' at the Test Card, yer fairy. Tauntin' me with that neck o'yours. Dirty beggar.”

Slumping down with shock into a chair, eyes bulging and ears burning, Sam listened, mouth agape.

“I bet – I bet yer bloody sat there, lookin' all innocent. Well let me tell you – _let me say to you_ , you've been after me fer months. Wiggling yer arse at me in them tight trousers. It's like two ferrets fighting in a sack, watchin' that go across the room. Yer doin' it porpuseful- propulsef- to get me goin'. And I'll tell yer somethin' else, Sammy. It's workin'.”

It was suddenly hard to swallow, and a faint trembling seemed to have set into Sam's limbs.

“I'm not sure whether to punch yer in the guts or – or – or – to shove me 'and down yer pants half the time. ”

Sam was fairly certain there wouldn't be much room to get a hand in his trousers right now. His cock suddenly appeared to be taking up all the available space. Who knew the slurring sound of a homophobic chain-smoker would be such a turn-on?

“All I dream of is you, naked, sat in me lap. Or on me face.”

Christ, now he was wriggling in his seat! 

“I spend most of me time in my office trying to hide my enormous erection. Which is not easy, not when yer this well-built. So what I'm sayin' to yer is - _I know_. I know yer after me. And you can 'ave me. Well, no. I can 'ave you. There's no way the Gene Genie's having anything stuck up 'is ring unless it's the well-manicured finger of Racquel Welch. But you can be sure I'm going to 'ave you, Sammy.”

Sam tried to adjust his trousers to make himself more comfortable, but as he squirmed around all he could hear was a clicking sound from the chair. He stopped moving and instead tried to will his straining cock into submission. But the next few words prevented all hope of that.

“I'm goin' to bang you so 'ard it'll make you shoot yer load all over this room. You'll be begging me to stop before I'm through with yer.”

The sudden realisation dawned that even though he had been sat motionless throughout the last two lines, Sam could still hear the clicking noise. As he looked at the recorder, his stomach dropped down past his kneecaps with a lurch. The tape was clicking with the strain of trying to turn; still trying to play even though it had run out. So if the clicking started _**before**_ the last thing he heard? - 

Sam pressed the “stop” button as a large figure emerged from the shadows behind him, moving out of the back corner of the room. Flexing gloved hands as he strode up to the table, Gene pulled Sam to his feet. Spinning him round, Gene grasped his shirt lapels and moved his body towards his DI. Whispering over Sam's lips with his own, he breathed, “Like I just said, I'm going to 'ave yer, Tyler. I've taken me aspirin, so no more hangover. I'm not drunk now, and I still want to fuck yer. So what we going to do about it?”

*****§§§§§*****§§§§§*****


End file.
